Part 6

"It's the best way. If you fix your eyes upon the woman for a little, she takes you for a sorcerer, grows scared, and will not only give you bread but the whole concern if necessary. Why should I beg and pray and lower myself before her when I can command? I have always thought that it is better to take than to beg ... but if you cannot take, you must beg, I suppose...."

"And has it never happened that instead of bread you sometimes...."

"Got one for myself, eh? No. Trust to me for that! My dear brother, let me tell you that I have got a magic little bit of paper, and I've only got to show it to a muzhik,[2] and he is instantly my slave. Would you like me to show it to you?"

I held in my hands a pretty dirty and crumpled piece of paper, and perceived that it was a transit certificate issued to Pavel Ignat'ev Promtov by the administrative authorities of Petersburg, permitting him to journey from Astrakhan to Nikolaiev. The paper bore the seal of the Astrakhan police-office, with the corresponding signatures--all quite regular.

[2] Peasant.

"I don't understand," I said, returning this document into the hands of its proprietor. "How is it you are starting from Astrakhan, when your point of departure was St. Petersburg?"

He smiled, his whole face expressed the consciousness of his superiority over me.

"Look now, it's quite simple. Think it out. They sent me from Petersburg, and in sending me invited me to choose, for certain reasons, my place of residence Say I choose Kursk, for example. Well, I appear at Kursk, and go to the police-station. I have the honour to present myself there. The Kursk police cannot welcome me amiably--they have their own little brothers there--and are full up. They assume that they have before them a sharper, and a clever sharper too; if they cannot rid themselves of him forcibly with the assistance of the statutes, they must have recourse to administrative measures in order to get shot of him. And they are always glad to send me packing--even if they plunge me into fresh misery. Perceiving their embarrassment I humanely come to their assistance. Well, well, I say, I had already chosen my place of residence, but perhaps you would like me to choose it over again? They are only too glad to get quit of me. I say, too, that I am ready to withdraw myself from the sphere of their duty, which is to preserve the inviolability of person and property, but as a reward for my amiability they must give me some provision for the road. They give me five roubles or ten, a little more or less, as the case may be, having regard to my temperament and character--and they always give gladly. It is always better to lose a fiver than to saddle themselves with grave inconvenience in my person--isn't it?"

"Possibly," I said.

"It is really so. And they provide me besides with a little piece of paper in no way resembling a passport. It is in its difference from a passport that the magic power of this little piece of paper consists. On it is written, 'ad-min-is-tra-tive-ly sent from Pet-ers-burg!' Oh! I show this to the starosta[3] who, generally, is as dull as a clod, and devil a bit of it does he understand. He fears it--there is a seal upon it. I say to him--on the strength of this bit of paper--you are bound to give me a night's lodging! He gives it to me. You are bound to feed me! He feeds me. He cannot do otherwise, for on the paper is inscribed--from St Petersburg administratively. What's the meaning of this 'administratively'?--the deuce only knows. It may mean: sent on a secret mission for investigating the condition of the coast industries, or inquiring as to the issue of false coin, or preventing illicit distilling, or carrying out the sale of contraband goods. Or it may imply an inquiry whether the people properly attend the services of the Orthodox Church as prescribed. Or possibly it has something to do with the land. Who can decide what 'administratively from Petersburg' means? Possibly I may be someone in disguise. The muzhik is stupid, what can he understand?"

[3] Village elder.

"Yes, he does not understand much," I observed.

"And a very good thing too!" declared Promtov with lively satisfaction. "Such he is and ought to be, and such as he is, and only so, he is indispensable to us all like the very air. For what is the muzhik? The muzhik is for us all the means of nutriment, that is to say, he is an edible creature. Look at me for instance! Would it be possible for me to exist upon this earth but for the muzhik? Four things are indispensable for the existence of man: the sun, water, air, and the muzhik.

"And the land?"

"Granted the muzhik--and you have the land as well. You have but to command him. Hie, you there! create the land, and there the land will be. He cannot disobey."

This merry vagrant loved talking! We had long since passed the village, left behind us many farms, and once more another village stood before us, submerged in the orange foliage of autumn. Promtov chattered on--as merrily as a finch--and I listened to him, and thought about the muzhik and this new kind of parasite, unknown to me before, participating in the illusory prosperity of the muzhik.... When will the muzhik be well repaid for all the evil with which he has been so liberally requited? Here, alongside of me, marched the product of town life--a cynical and sensible vagrant, living on the vital juices of this poor muzhik, a wolf fully conscious of his lupine strength.

"Listen now"--a circumstance had suddenly occurred to me--"we meet under conditions which induce me strongly to doubt the efficacy of your bit of paper--how do you explain it?"

"Aye, aye!" laughed Promtov, "very simply. I had already passed through that place, and it is not always convenient to bring yourself back to people's recollection as you know."

His candour pleased me. Candour is always a good quality, and it is a great pity that it is so rarely to be met with among respectable people. And I listened attentively to the random chatter of my comrade, trying to make up my mind whether the picture he drew of himself was the real one.

"Here is a village in front of us! If you like I will show you the power of my bit of paper--what do you say?" proposed Promtov.

I objected to the experiment, proposing instead that he should tell me how he had really earned this piece of paper.

"Well, that is a long, long story," said he, waving his hand. "But I'll tell you--one day. Meantime let us rest and have a snack. We have an ample store of food, which means that it is not necessary at present to go into the village and trouble our neighbour."

Quitting the road, we sat down on the ground and began to eat. Then, made lazy by the warm beams of the sun and the breath of the soft wind of the steppe, we lay down and slept.... When we awoke, the sun purple and large was already on the horizon, and on the steppe the mists of the southern evening were encamping.

"Now you shall see," declared Promtov. "Fate is content that we should pass the night in that little village."

"Let us go while there is still light," I proposed.

"Don't be afraid. To-night we shall have a roof above our heads."

He was right. At the first hut at which we knocked and asked for a night's lodging we were hospitably invited to come in.

The "guid man" of the hut, a big, good-natured fellow, had just come in from the fields where he had been ploughing, his "guid wife" was making supper ready. Four grimy little children, huddled into a heap in a corner of the room, peeped out at us from thence with timid, inquisitive eyes. The buxom housewife bustled about from the hut to the outhouse swiftly and silently, bringing bread and water-melons and milk. The master of the house sat down on a bench opposite to us rubbing his stomach with an air of concentration, and fixing penetrating glances upon us. Presently the usual question came from him:

"Where are you going?"

"We're going, dear man, from sea to sea, to the city of Kiev," replied Promtov cheerfully in the words of the old cradle song.

"What is there to be seen at Kiev?" inquired the "guid man" meditatively.

"The holy relics."

The "guid man" looked at Promtov in silence and spat. Then after a pause he asked:

"And from whence do you come?"

"I from Petersburg, he from Moscow," answered Promtov.

"All that way?"--the "guid man" raised his brows. "And what's Petersburg like? Folks say that it is built upon the sea and that it is often under water."[4]

Here the door opened and two other _khokhli_[5] came in.

"We want a word with you, Michael," said one of them.

"What have you got to say to me?"

"It's this--who are these people?"

[4] The peasant uses the Ruthenian dialect, the effect of which is lost in a translation.

[5] "Tuft-headed," the name given to the Little Russians by the Great Russians, from their mode of wearing their hair.

"These?" asked our host, nodding his head at us.

"Yes."

Our host was silent and thoughtful, he scratched his head a bit.

"I should like to know myself," he explained.

"Maybe you are pilgrims?" they inquired of us.

"Yes!" replied Promtov.

A long silence prevailed, in the course of which the three _khokhli_ regarded us doggedly, suspiciously, and inquisitively. At last they all sat down to table and began, with loud crunching, to consume the crimson water-melons.

"Maybe one of you is a scholar?" said one of the _khokhli,_ turning towards Promtov.

"Both!" curtly replied Promtov

"Then perchance you know what a man ought to do when his backbone smarts and itches to that degree that he cannot sleep o' nights?"

"We do know," replied Promtov.

"What?"

Promtov went on chewing his bread for a long time, dried his hands on his rags, then pensively regarded the ceiling and, at last, observed decisively and even severely:

"Break up a loaf and get your old woman at night to rub your spine with the crummy part, and afterwards anoint it with hemp-oil and fat ... that's all!"

"What will come of it?" inquired the _khokhol_.[6]

[6] Singular of khokhli.

"Nothing," and Promtov shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing."

"Why should anything come of it?"

"Yet it's a good remedy?"

"Yes, it's a good remedy."

"I'll try it. Thanks!"

"To your good health!" said Promtov perfectly seriously.

There was a long silence amidst the crunching of the water-melons and the whispering of the children.

"Hark ye," began the owner of the hut, "maybe you have heard all about it at Moscow--I mean about Siberia--is it possible to settle there or not? Our district magistrate said--but no doubt he lies--that it is quite impossible!"

"Impossible!" observed Promtov with an air of astonishment.

The _khokhli_ glanced at each other, and the master of the house murmured in his beard: "May a toad crawl into his stomach!"

"Impossible!" repeated Promtov, and suddenly his face glowed with enthusiasm; "it is impossible, but why go to Siberia at all when there is so much land everywhere--as much as you please?"

"Well, truly there's enough for the dead and to spare--but it is the living who stand in need of it," remarked one of the _khokhli_ sadly.

"In Petersburg it has been decided," continued Promtov triumphantly, "to take all the land belonging to the gentry and the peasantry and make crown property of it."

The _khokhli_ looked at him with wild wide-open eyes and were silent Promtov regarded them severely and asked:

"Yes, make crown property of it--and do you know why?"

The silence assumed an intense character, and the poor _khokhli,_ apparently, were almost bursting with anxiety and expectation. I looked at them, and was scarce able to restrain the anger excited in me by the practical joke which Promtov was thus malting at the poor creatures' expense. But to have betrayed his audacious falsehood to them would have meant a whacking for him, so I held my peace, overwhelmed by this foolish dilemma.

"Speak out, good man, and tell us!" asked one of the _khokhli_ quietly and timidly, with a stifled voice.

"They are going to take away the land in order to redistribute it more fairly among the peasants. It has been decided there"--here Promtov waved his hand vaguely to one side--"that the true owner of the land is the peasant, and so it has been ordered that there shall be no emigration to Siberia, but people are to wait till the land is divided...."

One of the _khokhli_ let his slice of melon fall out of his mouth in his excitement. All of them looked intently at Promtov's mouth with greedy eyes and were silent, being much impressed by the strange intelligence. And then--a few seconds afterwards--four expressions were heard almost simultaneously:

"Most holy mother!"--from the woman almost hysterically.

"But ... maybe you are lying!"

"Nay, but tell us more, good man!"

"Ah, that's why we have had such bright dawns and sunsets!" exclaimed the _khokhol_ whose backbone had ached, with conviction.

"It is only a rumour," said I. "No doubt all this sounds very much like falsehood...."

Promtov regarded me with genuine amazement and exclaimed fiercely:

"What rumour? What lies? What do you mean?"

And there poured from his lips the melody of a most audacious falsehood--sweet music for all who were listening to him except myself. He liked the fun of spinning yarns. The _khokhli,_ whom he wanted to persuade, were ready to jump into his mouth. But it was abominable to me to listen to his inspired falsehoods, which might very well result in bringing down a great misfortune upon the heads of these simple-minded folks. I left the hut and lay down in the courtyard thinking how best I could spoil the villainous game of my travelling-companion. His voice sounded for a long time in my ears, and then I fell asleep.

I was awakened by Promtov at sunrise.

"Get up! Let's be off!" he said.

Beside him stood the sleepy master of the hut, and the knapsack of Promtov was bulging out on all sides. We took our leave and departed. Promtov was merry. He sang, he whistled, and cast ironical sidelong glances at me. I was thinking what I should say to him and walked by his side in silence.

"Well! why don't you crucify me?" he suddenly asked.

"And are you aware of what will follow from all this?" I drily inquired.

"Why, of course! I understand you, and I know that you ought to turn the jest against me. I'll even tell you how you'll do it. Would you like to hear? But better far--chuck it! What harm is there in putting ideas into the heads of these muzhiks? They will be none the wiser for it. And, besides, I've played my game well Look how they've stuffed my knapsack for me!"

"But you may bring them under the stick!"

"Scarcely.... And what if I did? What have I to do with other folks' backs. God grant we may keep our own backs whole, that's all! That's not moral I know, but what do I care whether a thing is moral or not moral. You'll agree that that's nobody's business."

"Come," thought I, "the wolf's about right."

"Assume that they do suffer through my fault--I suppose the sky will still be blue and the sea salt."

"But are you not sorry?"

"Not a bit ... I am a rolling stone, and everything which the wind casts beneath my feet wounds me in the side."

He was serious and intensely wrathful, and his eyes gleamed vindictively.

"I always do like that and sometimes worse. Once I recommended a muzhik to drink constantly olive oil mixed with blackbeetles for a pain in the stomach, because he was a skin-flint. Not a little evil of a humorous sort have I wrought during my earthly pilgrimage. How many stupid superstitions and mystifications have I not introduced into the spiritual parts of the muzhik?... And in general I am never very particular. Why should I be? For the sake of a few statutes, eh? Are there not other laws within myself? This, my confession of faith, has also the sanction of John Chrysostom, who says: 'the true Shekina--is man.'"

"But why boast of it?"

"That is wrong, eh?--from your point of view. But I, you see, am no great lover of gentlemanly points of view ... and I assume that if people lift a stick to me it is my duty to respond with a stick and not with an obeisance."

As I listened to him I reflected that it would be well for me to recollect the first Psalm of King David, and depart from the way of this sinner. But then I wanted to know his history.

I spent three more days with him, and during these three days I became convinced of much which I had previously only suspected. Thus, for example, it became quite clear to me in what manner various useless and ancient objects found their way into Promtov's knapsack, such as the lower half of a copper candlestick, a chisel, a bit of lace, and a necklace. I understood that I was running the risk of a flogging and perhaps of falling into those places which finally receive collectors similar to Promtov. I should really have to part from him But then, his story!

And lo! one day when the wind was howling savagely, knocking us off our legs, and we found ourselves in a haystack sheltering from the cold, Promtov told me the story of his life.

II.

THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.

Well--then! let us discourse for your profit and edification ... I'll begin with papa. My papa was a stern and conscientious man, just touching upon his sixtieth year, on half-pay, and he settled down in a little country town where he bought himself a little house. My mamma was a woman with a kind heart and generous blood.... For me, at any rate, he had no respect. For every trifle he made me kneel in a corner and lambed into me with a strap. But mamma loved me, and it was pleasant to live with her.... At the time papa moved into the little provincial town, I was in the sixth class of the Gymnasium, but I was expelled from it shortly afterwards for getting mixed up with the teacher of physics.... I ought to have taken my lessons in physics from this teacher, and I took them instead from the head master's chambermaid. The head master was very angry with me for this, and drove me away to papa. I appeared before him, and explained that here I was expelled from the Temple of Learning because of a misunderstanding with the head master. But the head master had taken the precaution of informing my father of the whole affair by letter, so that the moment papa beheld me he began scolding me with all sorts of nasty words, and mamma did ditto. When they were tired of scolding me they resolved to send me away to Pskov, where papa had a brother living. So they're sending me to Pskov, I said to myself; well, uncle is stupid and savage enough, but my dear little cousins are nice and kind, so life will be possible there anyhow. But even at Pskov it soon appeared that I had no friends at court, so to speak. In three months uncle turned me out, accusing me of immoral conduct, and having a bad influence on his daughters. Again I was scolded, and again I was banished, this time to the country, to the house of an aunt who lived in the Government of Ryazan. My auntie seemed to be a glorious and good-natured old lady, who always had heaps of young people about her. But at that time everyone was infected by the foolish habit of reading forbidden books--and suddenly I found myself in gaol, where I suppose I must have remained three or four months. Mamma thereupon instructed me by letter that I had killed her; papa informed me that I had dishonoured him--what very tiresome parents it was my fate to have!

You know that if a man were free to choose his own parents it would be a much more convenient arrangement than the present order of things--now, wouldn't it? Well, well! They let me out of prison, and I went to Nijni-Novgorod, where I had a married sister. But my sister appeared to be overwhelmed by family cares, and very ill-humoured on that account. What was I to do? Just at the nick of time Mass was being celebrated, and I joined the choir of singers. My voice was good, I had a handsome exterior, they promoted me to the rank of solo-singer, and I sang all by myself. You imagine, I suppose, that I must have taken to drink on this occasion. No, even now I hardly ever drink vodka, only sometimes, and that very rarely--by way of warming myself. A drunkard I never was; of course I have had my fill when good wines were going--champagne for instance, and if you gave me Marsala, lots of it I mean, I should undoubtedly get drunk upon it, for I love it as I love women Women I love to frenzy--and perhaps I hate 'em too, for in the end I always feel an irresistible desire to play them some dirty trick.... Well, well! _Why_ I feel so mad with them sometimes I do not know and cannot explain to myself. They have always been gracious to me, for I was handsome and bold. But they're such ties! Well, the deuce take them for what I care. I love to hear them cry and groan--for then I always think: Aha! now you are having your deserts.

However, there was I singing away, I cared not what, so long as I had a merry life. Then, one day, I was suddenly accosted by a clean-shaven man who appeared before me and said: "Have you ever tried acting on the stage?" Well, I had played a part in domestic spectacles. "Would you like to earn twenty-five roubles[1] a month for playing light-comedy parts?" "All right!" said I. So off we went to the town of Perm. At Perm I played and sang in comic operas made up as a passionate dark young chap--with a past, the past of a political offender. The ladies were in raptures. Then I took the second lover rôles. "Try the heroic parts," they said to me. So I played the part of Max in "Errant Fires," and it went off capitally--I knew it I played through a whole season That summer our tour was a great success. We played at Vyatka, we played at Ufa, we even played at Elabuga. In the winter we returned to Perm.

[1] £2 10s.

And in that winter I felt a hatred and loathing of mankind. You know how it is. You appear on the stage, and you see hundreds of fools and wretches with their eyes fixed full upon you--that slavish cowardly shudder (I know it so well) runs all down your back, and you have the prickly sensation of one who has sat down in an ant heap. They look upon you as their plaything, as a thing which they have purchased for their gratification for a single evening. They have the power to condemn or to approve. And there they sit waiting to see whether you will exert yourself with sufficient diligence to please them And if they think that you have used sufficient diligence, they will bray--bray like tethered asses, and you must listen to them and feel content with their applause. For a time you will forget that you are their property ... then, when you call it to mind, you will smite yourself upon the snout for having found pleasure in their approval.

I hated this "public" to the verge of convulsions. Frequently I should have liked to have spat on them from the stage, to have rowed them with the vilest words. There were times when their eyes--you will feel with me--pricked my body like darning-needles; and how greedily that "public" waits for you to tickle it--waits with the confidence of that lady land-owner whose serf-girls used to scratch the soles of her feet every evening. You are sensible of this expectation of theirs, and you think how pleasant it would be to have in your hand a knife long enough to clean slice off all the noses of the first row of spectators at a single stroke. Devil take the whole lot of them!

But pardon me this outburst! I fear that for the moment I was becoming quite sentimental!--I only meant to say that I was a player, that I hated my public, and wanted to run away from it. In this I was assisted by the wife of a procurator. She did not please me and that did not please her. She set her husband in motion, and I suddenly appeared in the town of Saransk--just as if I were a grain of wheat whirled by the wind from the banks of the Kama. Ah, well! everything in this wretched life of ours is like a dream!